Wii!

Dear Children -

Someday, I hope you have kids of your own, and get to see the sheer joy and happiness of your own children being completely full of joy. Oh my goodness, do I love watching you when you are so thrilled, and excited, and having so much exuberant fun.

Love,
Me.

Make it STOP!!!

I like music. I even like most of the songs I am about to list here ... but I never ever ever want to hear them in another commercial - ever. For the rest of my life. Ever.

• Suddenly I See - KT Tunstall
• The Story - Brandi Carlile
• Holiday - Vampire Weekend
• Soul Sister - Train
• New Soul - Yael Naim.
• Anything by the Avett Brothers, OK Go, or Michael Franti & Spearhead
  

So to all you marketing executives who will never read this - I'm not buying what you're selling if you use those songs.

Profile Pages

craigslist.org - I already wrote about how creepy these ads are. No thank you.

Plentyoffish.com - I can't get over that your name is trying to say "Plenty of Fish" but reads as "Plenty Offish" which makes me think of "Stand Offish" which makes me think it's snobby. Also, I can't stand the interface. Next, please.

Match.com - The "Big" player in online dating. Except, I'm cheap and I don't want to pay for cheesy pick up lines or subscribe in order to see who is viewing my profile.

eHarmony - won't let me look because my status is "separated" not "divorced." Very annoying - both on the part of eHarmony, and my ex.

okcupid - trying it out this week. It's free. It has interesting potential. We will see if anyone is brave enough to ask me out for coffee, given that I was honest about 1) my relationship status of "separated" 2) my weight and 3) that I am looking for new friends, not a long term relationship or marriage.

I'm not even sure what I *am* looking for. I'm emotionally done with my first marriage. I am not certain that I want a second. I do want companionship. I like the concept of sharing the work of a home. I am gun shy about being dependent on someone else.

What do I want?

Maybe that's the question everyone asks. There are practical answers, and emotional answers, and physical answers. But what is the right proportion of practical, emotional, and physical?
I don't know.

Do I have a "type"?

In the course of the past few weeks - in separate yet related discussions - it has come to my attention that I do not have a "type."

The smart-ass in me denies this. I assert that I am type O neg, and therefore, my type match must also be O neg to avoid harmful side effects such as blood clots that lead to stroke or heart attack. (An aside - I am a very nerdy smart ass.)

But that's not the type being discussed. Do I have a type? I don't think I do. I can't think of a "type" that fits the men I have dated or been interested in previously. The commonalities were:
- great smile
- articulate
- humorous
- taller than me

Is that sufficient for "typing"? (Shut up brain... puns about typing on the keyboard are NOT relevant to this thought process)

If you know me, do I have a type? And what type am I? Yeah, O neg.... I got that far.

stupid day

This was a day when everything at home went wrong. I woke up late. I couldn't find my keys. I yelled at my kids. I forgot to grab son's blanket once we were finally heading out the door. There wasn't coffee. Then I burned my hand when I made it. Then there were some meetings, and I was actually productive at work, then it was time to get the kids and finish Christmas shopping errands.

(Does anyone else have warning klaxons in their heads?)

In the course of our shopping excursion, two separate glass objects were broken, the things I needed to purchase DIDN'T get purchased, and I turned into that obnoxious bitchy mom that I hate being. What a freaking stupid day this was.

I hate being a yell-y mom. HATE HATE HATE. It makes me feel like a mean and terrible person, and turns into a spiral of loathing that is difficult to interrupt. Humor can pause the downward spiral... throwing things makes it worse. Mostly, I wish I wouldn't even get so angry. But I do... and there's a voice in my head that tells me I suck for it. It's hard to ignore it.

forest vs. trees

It's the holiday season... jingle bells, fa la la, etc.

It's parties, and cookies, and Children's services, and presents and cards and shopping and wrapping paper and stamps to express appreciation.

It's work, and school, and snow, and cold, and on and on and on until your head spins and you just want to yell "STOP THE CRAZY!"

In other words, I've been missing the forest for the trees.... again.

It is the holiday season.

It is Thanksgiving for the blessings within my life, and the lives of those I love. Thankfulness for health, hearth, and home. Thankfulness for bounty, and goodness.

It is Christmas... the Christ Mass.... to celebrate the birth of my savior and the promises God fulfilled through that infant born in a manger.

It is a New Year... a new start... new opportunities and new blessings to come, and a remembrance of the year past - with wisdom gained from the forgiven mistakes.

If I can stop running around and crashing into the trees, I find that I am in the middle of a very peaceful forest.

On death and tap dancing

Friday - Holiday dance recital and lots of messy snow.

Saturday - snow shoveling, Christmas tree decorating, Holiday dance recital, present shopping.

Sunday - crazy day with lunatic children, message from my mom and no chance to call her back.

Monday - Called mom back. My aunt had had a serious stroke, and the prognosis wasn't good. Call later that morning to say aunt had passed away. Leave work early, cry, talk to family, and figure out travel plans, arrangements,

Tuesday - Cram a lot of work into a day. Pick out gifts for Toys for Tots. Shop for yarn. Go to tap class.


It is a weird mental juxtaposition to me to put death and tap dancing next to each other. But the events of this month have been marked by those things. The still quietness of death... the vibrant noisy tempo of tap....

I love my aunt. I am sad that I won't see her again on this Earth. Her laughter, and humor, and beautiful kindness will be missed by more people than just me. There's a stillness in my heart where her memory lives.

I love my tap class. I enjoy the challenge to my feet, the sounds, the rhythm, the energy of movement. It makes me laugh and smile, even when I frown at my misbehaving heels, toes, shuffles, spanks, and taps.

Stillness and noise. Sorrow and joy. Tears and laughter.

A list of inventive language

• Night bears
• Little missy
• Just one more hug and kiss. No, three more, then I won't miss you.
• Attendix
• Do you need a consequences?
• Is your nickname Marjorie?
• You're a naked mole rat!
• Meaniac!
• attackuum cleaner
• I'm not a mukula, you're a mukula!
• I'm faster than a race car!
• We're just being hooligans, mom.

Experiences I could live without

So... Friday night.

I'm still processing this, and it's going to be a train of thought narrative. Stop now if you don't like that form.

Movie night and sleepover with the kids. A daughter with no appetite, complaining of a stomach ache. Get a barf bucket, tuck her in. Tuck son in. Get both kids to sleep. Read for awhile. Go upstairs because daughter is so sad. Take temp - 99*. Give ibuprofen, and hugs. Go back downstairs and read some more. Hear random exclamations indicating restless sleep.

11:30, hear "Owie! Owie! Owie!" and sad crying. The pain in her stomach is worse, she can't sleep, and is clearly miserable. Realize that this falls into the category of "Not Good" and attempt to figure out the logistics of an ER trip with a daughter who is in pain while a son who is oblivious continues to sleep. Comfort daughter, decide to call her dad to either bring her to the ER, or stay with son. He stays with son.

ER: 12 am. Arrive, register, they take vitals, and try to get a urine sample. No luck. Wait.
Wait some more. Watch asthmatic pregnant woman get rushed ahead of us. Watch guy with smashed foot go ahead of us. Get pillow and blanket from nurse, and tuck daughter in on a couch. Watch daughter sleep. Wait. Wait. Doze. Wait.

2:00 am. Get brought to exam room. More vitals. Dr. comes in, does exam. Based on presentation of symptoms, lack of barf, and low grade temp, possibilities are a bladder infection or appendicitis. They need to do a blood draw to check for infection, still need a urine sample from a dehydrated kid, and will have to do an x-ray to check the appendix.

2:30 am - Nurse runs an IV line to draw blood and give fluids. My daughter does not move her arm. She is scared, she cries because the pinch feeling hurts, because she's so tired, because this freaks her out a little. (Me too, little darling, me too.) I sing her a song, and hold her face to look in my eyes so she won't see the needle.

3:00 am - stomach x-rays. She loves this part, of riding on the bed to the x-ray room, trailing along an IV post.

4:00 am - Watching Little Einsteins on playhouse Disney. Finally - pee happens.

4:45 am - test results come back, high bacteria count. My sense of relief at this news is overwhelming. Thank goodness it is this, because that means we can go home - not get admitted for surgery.

5:00 am - talk w/ Dr. about the meds daughter is allergic too, and which one works best in these instances.

5:15 - first dose of antibiotic.

5:45 - discharged from ER.

6 am - home to sleep, to tuck in daughter, give her kisses for being brave, to send her dad back to his house, to crash hard until son wakes up.

7:15 am - Wake up with son.

------
I can absolutely say I could live happily never having another night like that. Ever.
There's something terrifying about knowing your child has a hurt you can't fix, and can't identify. When she feels so terrible that on the way to the hospital, she says "Well, maybe this is when God wants me to live with him." How can you even sleep? You can't. You just hold her, and watch her, and soak in every moment, waiting and hoping that it's not as bad as your fears. Praying while you rub her back, and brush her hair away from her face. Being strong in the moment, because you must be. Because she needs you to be there for her, to tell her the truth about what's going to happen, and why it's happening, and what the doctors and nurses need to know and find out.

I'm sobbing while I type this, because it's the first time I've had a chance to let this out - the terrible fear, and the wondrous relief. *Just* a UTI -- which, sucks, yes. But it's so much easier to treat that than it would have been to call her dad and say "We're staying at the hospital, she needs her appendix out" and figure out logistics of work, and school, and child care and holiday travel while trying not to worry about some doctor cutting into my darling girl's little body.

I don't know how the parents of kids who require frequent hospital care do it, day in and day out. But I know for myself, that's an experience I could live without.

Not what they used to be

Date Nights....

I have vague memories of what Friday nights used to be like - giddy excitement about the weekend ahead, staying up late to watch a movie with friends, getting coffee at horrid times of night, wondering what to wear, or who to do something with. I don't think I miss that.

Actually, I know I don't miss that. I don't want to be that girl anymore. I am in love with my regular Friday dates. We stay up super late, way past bedtime. (8:00 pm instead of 7:30) We watch a movie. (Classic Disney, usually.) We have a sleepover, sometimes on the living room floor, sometimes all piled into the same bed (mine.) I never get enough sleep. I never get enough covers. I never want to change this.


But I know, inevitably, in fewer years than I would like, I will be sitting home on a Friday night, bemoaning the fact that Friday evenings just are not what they used to be, as I watch these same wonderful loves getting ready for their own Friday date nights. I will miss the softly whispered bedtime secrets. I will hope they will still be willing to give me just one more hug and kiss so I won't miss them. But even if they do agree... I will still miss them, even as I let them go.

Oh Friday... you are tinged with bittersweetness.

something

Making myself practice a habit, and write.... something.

Take away for this post:

It's best to write when you have something in mind to write about, and more than 5 minutes to write.

The end.

Since October....

Okay - that last post was very introspective - externally in my life:

Insulating an Attic:

1. You will never look hot in the safety gear required to insulate an attic; safety goggles, dust mask, head scarf, long sleeve shirt, long pants, and thick shoes.
2. You will however be hot.
3. It is messy, and dusty, and immesely satisfying.
   
4. I would never want this for my full time job.

Halloween

1. No one cried, balked, needed to pee after the second house, rode in a wagon this year.
2. Everyone said "Trick or Treat" and "Happy Halloween" and "Thank You."
3. Trick or treating with a train and an adorable scary witch was awesome.

Randomly

• Tap dancing is ridiculously fun, even though I'm ridiculously bad still.
• Snow is over-rated.
• Binge reading is my worst vice. Really.

Compulsions

Thoughts I've encountered recently:

• All writers read, but not all readers write.
• Writers write because there isn't anything else to do.
• Sign me up for that book, Mom.
  

And when I say "encountered" I mean - they stopped me in my tracks and wrestled me to the ground. I say that I am a writer. My job title includes the word. I have been compelled more than once by internal an external forces to put fingers to keyboard or pen to paper and write.

I get hung up on form sometimes. That has been my excuse lately. "I can't write a novel"
But there are thoughts in my head that need expressing. Maybe they will be letters. Maybe they will be essays. I hope some of them turn into the story about an imaginary elephant that my son has signed up for on his Christmas wish list.

What stops me? I say the demands of my job stop me. I say the need to parent my children stops me. I pick up books to read other voices and quiet the narrative in my own brain for awhile. But it comes down to this.... the raw honesty that I know is required to tell the stories in my heart and head scares the living daylights out of me. It would be compelling reading - I know I am good at funny, and poignant, and absurd.... but I don't feel brave enough yet to bring those things to light. I make excuses to not write - but what I really mean is - I'm afraid.

To say even that makes me think I am a wimp. But I have read powerful writers who tell the whole truth. To be so exposed, so open to interpretation, interrogation, and analysis is terrifying.

But it's just words. Words.... not me. Yes. And no. My words. My thoughts. My experience and choices.

Whew. In some ways, this blog is a test of myself, to see what I am capable of sharing, and what fear I can overcome. I am compelled to write, but I am not always brave enough to do so.

so... about this weekend....

As I type this, it is late (Ha!!! 8:53 pm... late!!!) on Sunday. I am listening to my son perform his usual bedtime gymnastics as he settles down to sleep. The cat is sitting by me on the couch, and I wish there could just be a little more time in this almost perfect weekend.

I read a book. I saw a movie. I ate a delicious meal involving pan-seared duck in a chili sauce. I insulated the attic. I made a pumpkin pie. I visited with family and friends. I practiced tap dancing. I did not fold laundry, watch football, clean my bedroom, scrub the floors, or clean the toilets. I made a conscious choice to ignore yard-work.

I am tired.... but it's the kind of tired that comes from spending time on the things I enjoy - not the tiredness of dreading tasks. Those other things still need to be done, and I'll do them - eventually. But I do not regret the time spent in the company of others. I think I need that more sometimes.

Boxes

There's a ubiquitous phrase that I'm starting to hate - "Think outside the box."
What box? A shoe box? A boxy car? A situation you are stuck in? The compartment of expectations that people have for you? Honestly, what good does it do to merely think outside that box?

Why am I thinking about boxes? Because I hate feeling like I've been put in one. I rebel against other's expectations for me. I don't want to be coddled and protected and kept on a shelf. I need and want to know that I'm capable that I can try things that challenge me, and *IF* I fail... my family and friends will be there to pick me up and say " That was a GREAT try!"

How will you know what you can do if you don't try? How small will your world get if you stay in the box? How small will *you* get if you stay in the box?

LIVE outside that box. Stretch out big. Push yourself. You'll have plenty of time in a box later.

September, I hardly knew ye.

Dear September -

I don't remember what I did this month. I know there was a national holiday. I know my son turned 4. I know the weather went from summer to a lovely autumn. And I worked. A lot. I hope that next year, I have more time to enjoy you, and that you are more than just a fleeting moment that goes too fast.

Sincerely,
Me

Zero to 4 in the Blink of an Eye

What happens when you blink:


Happy Birthday little man.

Cereal Monogamy

I discovered recently that it doesn't pay for me to try new cereal. The new just isn't as good as the tried and true.
CoCo Wheats will never be as good as Chocolate Malt-O-Meal.
Store brand quick oats are not superior to Quaker.
Marshmallow Matey's beat Lucky Charms, both on price and sugar content.
And there simply isn't a substitute for Cinnamon Life.

So all you other shiny seductive cereal boxes - give it up. I'm not bringing you home no matter how big your advertising budget was.

Still waters

It's a truth of my life that when there are many things of high importance occuring in my private inner circle of life -- the outer circle of my life becomes livelier with humor and mischief. It's a neat trick of emotional misdirection.

Oh look - funny things! Nothing see here, no need to worry! Move along, folks. No dilly-dallying.

The people closest to me already know the worry or the crisis. The people on the periphery don't need the added burden of care, and so can just appreciate the humor of my own self-distraction.

I've given up trying to decide if that makes me strong or weak. I recognize it as my own method of coping with the parts of life I can't control. I would rather share laughter in hard times than enter a game of one-upping the misery.

Snowblind in August

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CnbYsUIO3ic

I think we're snowblind, we've had a hard time, and we can't see where we are.
Spending our whole lives walking in straight lines, and it doesn't seem to stop.

This is our life, it's all that we get
the days are all numbered, and the nights are all spent
losing our focus, and we're starting to drag,
we're running in circles and we start to feel bad.


Snowblind - Rob Thomas - (C) Warner Music Group

-----------
The poetry of this lyric speaks to my heart, in ways that are not easy to explain. I know what it is to be snowblind, and the metaphor is so very apt for what I experienced when my marriage was failing. Everything swirling around you, until it's impossible to see anyway forward. Eventually the storm passes, but the landscape looks nothing like it did before the snow.

There's wisdom, and pain, and beauty in this song. It's almost hard to share it. My own story doesn't end the way this song does...

oh, but when the night falls down on this place
i will be the one to hold you
when the tears run down your face

but for a long time... I hoped it would. I no longer expect that reconciliation to occur in this life. And perhaps every August 26th, I will remember the frostbite from being snowblind.

Genetic Humor

I'm telling a deep dark secret here - no, not really. Duh. This is the internet.

I think fart jokes are funny. All gaseous humor, really. Until now, it's never been something I'd share with more than my friends and family. It's just a funny sound. And slightly embarrassing. And it happens to everyone. It's just funny. I give up trying to analyze why it makes me giggle. It just does.

Guess what else? I get to laugh about it A LOT. My children recently discovered their own joy and humor at pretend farts and burps.

AAAAAAAAAARP!!! followed by "excuse me" and raucous laughter. Or
BBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBBPTTT , I tooted!!! excuse me.
and more laughter.

Truely, is there anything more fun than sharing silly dorky humor with your children and laughing together until your sides hurt? I think not. I'm so glad that trait got picked up in my kids.

Trainwrecks

Anyone who drives knows about "gawker slow-down" - that phenomenon where if there's an accident, people feel the need to stop and look.

I feel that way about Craigslist personals. I can't help myself, I have to stop and look. It's my own version of gawker slow-down. And of course, I can't keep this knowledge to myself - no, I must share it to save you from having to learn the painful lesson on your own.

Craigslist is all about categories... putting things where they belong so visitors can easily find what they want. In the personals, visitors apparently want lots and lots of acronyms. M4W. W4M. M4MW. W4M. FWB. SDM. SBM for BBW. DDF. Until all you can think is WTF? Don't these people know how to use words? Sadly, the answer is no.

And then there's posts involving pictures.... which I have also learned to categorize:
- Not a real person
- I don't know you, and I don't need to see that.
- Is that supposed to make you seem romantic?

Then there's the people who post. I'm sure some of them are very normal people, with normal and busy lives. But there's also these people:
- I want to get laid.
- I'm bitter about my ex
- My spouse can't find out
- Not from around here

There. You now know what I know about Craigslist Personals. Which leads me to the conclusion that it's better suited to finding furniture and garage sales than potential partners. I think I'll stick to meeting people at IKEA, or the coffee shop, or the library.

Boring thoughts

"I'm so bored!"

"There's nothing to do!"

"That's boring!"

Not so long ago, I thought boredom was a terrible thing. It has a negative connotation - Merriam-Webster defines boredom as : the state of being weary and restless through lack of interest.

These days, I'm starting to see boredom as a luxury item. There's just not time to be weary. Or restless. And there are too many interesting things happening somedays that lacking interest is simply not possible.

Kids with fevers. Multiple software releases in the same month. Emptying a storage unit. School starting. Figuring out visits with family and friends.

Being bored means there's no emotional turmoil or urgent events that require immediate attention. Being bored means that life is calm. The routine is working, and life is about as normal as it will ever get. Today, I think I'd like that kind of boring.

Adrian Cronauer

I loathe the wet heat of August in Minnesota. It makes me crabby and out of sorts. I can't think of anything good to say or think about it. But then I remember this quote, from Good Morning, Vietnam:

The weather out there today is hot and shitty with continued hot and shitty in the afternoon.

That movie was from a summer when I had no job, no responsibilities, and the freedom to spend every weekend hanging out with friends and being young. It makes me smile to remember, even while I wish for the coolness of an autumn night.

Before you begin....

I feel that I must preface this post with a disclaimer: I do not work for IKEA and as much as I might wish otherwise, I'm getting nothing from mentioning them so often in this post.

So you saw my new bed. I am rather fond of it already. I picked it up at IKEA, bastion of inexpensive furnishings to assemble on your own. In case you've never been to an IKEA.... Saturday's not usually the best time to shop there - but it was the day I had time to go, and so, I went. At least I was wise enough to use the product finder on the website, so when I arrived, I could go directly to the self-serve warehouse and pick out what I needed. Aisle 30, Bin 24 & 25. Aisle 28, Bin 3.

A small problem - apparently, IKEA does not expect you to be a single woman shopping alone for a queen size bed. The box was big, and rectangular, and over my head.
Workaround for small problem:

1. Walk to end of aisle.
2. Press "help" button.
3. Wait.
   

See cute tall guy who had previously held door open to self-serve warehouse. Smile.

"Do you need some help?"
"Yes, actually, I do. The bed I want is too large to take down from the shelf by myself"

Cute tall guy helps manuever 63-lb rectangle from shelf onto unwieldy cart, with combination of head, arms, deftness, and commentary on the difficulty of shopping at IKEA alone.

I politely offer my thanks for his help, and another smile, and proceed to the checkout. While standing in line, I mentally kick myself for not even asking Cute Tall Guy his name. Because he was helpful. And cute. And oh well, it's too late now because I'm paying for my bed and I need to go home and put it together and OMG would I *really* ask for someone's number at IKEA?!

Home again, I work on a variety of other house related projects through the afternoon. After dinner, I decide I should put my bed together. I open up the 63 lb rectangle, look for the helpful assembly instructions, and discover that - yes, I really should have asked for Cute Tall Guy's number:

See that?

• Flat head screwdriver.
  
• Phillips head screwdriver.
  
• Bed assembly buddy.

IKEA... why didn't you put that on the outside of the 63 lb. rectangle? Why?!

Lesson learned - if a nice, cute, tall guy offers to help with a bed - it's probably a good idea to at least get his phone number.

Home, at last.

Since I moved into my house, I've been sleeping on various surfaces that aren't always comfortable... air mattress & hide-away couch... I'm talking to you.

It's a survivable method of sleep, but I can't recommend it as a long term solution. It just feels temporary to sleep on transitional surfaces, like crashing at a friend's place, or borrowing a couch for cheap lodgings while on vacation.

This weekend though was another milestone of sorts. I have my own bed. My own place of sanctuary and rest. My house doesn't feel like a place to crash... it feels like home.

Love affair

Hot. Dark. Strong. Steamy. Rich. Exotic.

Coffee. I love coffee. I love the sensual experience of opening a fresh bag of coffee beans, the first scent of Guatamalan or Sumatran beans. The texture of just the right grind. The aroma as a the pot brews. The deep rich brown of a freshly poured cup. The heat that leaks through the ceramic into my hands. The whole experience wakes me up.

It's a simple pleasure, and an affordable luxury, and I cherish that.

I enjoy the memories of working in a coffee shop, and coming home smelling like espresso. It took me forever to learn the proper technique for foaming milk for cappucinos.

I remember being pregnant with my babies, and the smell of coffee making me want to vomit. I remember how long it took me to be willing to try coffee again after that.

Coffee... you've been good to me.

On and Off Weeks

I've just switched over to an "off" week, when my perfectly fabulous and completely exhausting (at times) children go to their dad's house. As custody arrangements go -- this one is not so terrible. They have equal time with both of us. I get time to myself to work on projects around the house and go in early or stay late at work as needed.

But I hate the first night they are gone. I hate how quiet the house is. I hate not getting to snuggle them to sleep, or sing their songs, or listen to those bedtime tales about their days. My heart aches, my arms ache, and I regret every cross word I spoke in the last week. I know I can't change the past, and that controlling the future is really more a general guidance than absolute control - but on these nights when I switch to an "off"' week - it's hard to not wish things were different.

But I can't go back - I can only go forward, and must do so knowing that sometimes it's just going to feel "off."


-----------------
Related:
This write-up has informed a large part of the separation and agreements about the life we want for the kids: http://www.divorcehq.com/billrights.shtml

Helpful kinds of help

Things I think single parents everywhere should have free access to:

Bedtime police
Housecleaning fairies
Push-button hot suppers

Post-camping joy

In spite of the exhausting nature of that camping trip, when I think about it now, the fun parts were enough to compensate.

I loved how excited my kids were to be camping. I loved their sheer enthusiasm for sleeping in a tent, in sleeping bags. I loved letting them help set up their beds, unroll their sleeping bag, put the pillow & blankies just so - and then proceed to make it all messy by tumbling onto the bed just to check it out.

I loved watching them learn how to cook hot dogs over a campfire, and wait for a marshmallow to get roasted. I loved listening to their conversations at night.

"Don't those noisy people know it's bedtime?"
"Why is there smoke in the sky?"
"Can I have another marshmallow"
"Hey - you kids, it's night time and people are trying to sleep!"
"Mom, maybe next time, it would be a good idea if we brought some earmuffs"

And sometimes, I just wanted to gobble them up. "Grandpa, your camper is like a dollhouse!" "Your little house is AMAZING!" And while it was challenging to cope with both kids in the ER, having daughter there too helped to keep both me and son calmer. "Mom, can I have a snack? Do you think this TV works? Hey little guy, it's okay. Do you need a hug? The nurse will help you. Nurse Emily, did you know I'm allergic to 3 kinds of medicine? I get a big rash, and sometimes it makes me barf."

Then there's the marvelous and yet heartbreaking way a 3 year old explains a head injury.
"I fell and got a noggin floggin. Then it was blood on me. Then I went to the hobbital. They did a squirty thing, and I cried. I didn't like it. It was stinging me and I was bleeding. Then the docker was going to put stick-es in me, but he only painted my noggin flogging. I didn't like that, it made me cry and I was sad."

But we got back to the campground, and family was there, waiting with love, and hugs, and a hot dinner, and more marshmallows - and those are some of the best moments ever.

A weekend - summarized

A camping we will go... or, what happened when I went to a family reunion 2 states away from home.










Friday:
Long ass drive. Set up tent. Visit with family. Have dinner. Roast marshmallows. Attempt to sleep. Listen to daughter randomly wish that everyone had to go to bed at the same time. Fall asleep. Put son back in after rolling out of bed. Put daughter back in bed for same. Repeat about 3 times. Listen to rain start. Fall asleep again.
















Saturday:
Wake up. Eat breakfast in rain. Go to reunion. Return to tent to change son out of soaked-to-knees pants after building sandcastles with his cousins. Go to reunion. Return to tent to change completely soaked daughter after she "accidentally" went swimming when helping Dylan to build a raft. Decide energy is all gone, and nap is needed to restore it. Rest for 3.1 minutes. Sun comes out, tent gets hot. Give up and bring kids swimming. Feel bitchy the whole time. Go back to campground to put kids in shower & rinse off sand. Put daughter on potty, hang things on hooks, hear son WAIL. Pick up sad boy from floor, realize he's got a laceration in his forehead that goes to the bone. Put towel to head to stop the bleeding. Pick up stuff from hooks. Throw towel around naked daughter, walk as quickly as possible to parents camper. Hand son to Uncle, get paper towel & ice pack for head. Put clothes on daughter. Walk over to my campsite, get van. See park ranger, ask for directions to nearest ER. Put kids in van, drive to Ishpeming. Talk to son the whole time so he stays awake. Verdict: mild concussion, laceration irrigated (squirted) and sealed with dermabond (painted). Drive back to campground. Keep kids up too late to make sure son doesn't have adverse effects from glue or concussion.









Sunday
Wake up too early. Pack up camp. Drive. Drive. Drive. Drive. Drop brother off in Hibbing. See sister, husband & nephew. Drive. Drive. Drive. Home at last.

Bright and shiny

Today started out on the ridiculously grumpy and crabby end of my emotional spectrum. I woke up too early. It was raining. I forgot to eat breakfast before leaving the house. Traffic sucked. My computer was horrifyingly slow and email wouldn't open. I stopped for good coffee and a scone. It got me through restarting every thing and then calling tech support. One hour of the morning - gone.

This doesn't sound like an auspicious beginning to the day, and quite the opposite of bright and shiny. Depressing and sad almost. Stupid morning.

But... dah-dah-daaaah (pretend that's a heraldic blast of trumpets) Co-workers to the rescue!! The email issue was not just mine, and I was not the only writer in my aisle who woke up too early on the grumbly side of the bed. "Caribou coffee?" was the query - and the day that was all gross and grumpy started to improve.

So what if I was hopped up on caffeine for most of the day. So what if technology was a thorn in my side. I work with some really bright and shiny friends - and I'm so glad.

Plus - any group of co-workers that has an un-official plan for dealing with a zombie apocalypse is pretty darn awesome. You can be jealous now.

I don't love it.

There's something magical about language development in children. The first "mama" or "dada." Or a soft and complete little "have dat, pwease?" In spite of myself, in those moments, I am always certain that it is my FAVORITE moment. But time moves forward, and the moment passes, and the memory fades. But this time - oh - this time....

"I don't love it." That's what Little Boy says when he can't stand something. He doesn't love strawberries, or steamed cauliflower, or cheese with holes in it, or when there are no more fruit snacks.
"I don't love that, Muther!!" He won't say that he hates it - it's just the opposite of love for him.

Can you stay just exactly like this, little boy?

But I know you can't, because time moves forward.... and sometimes I don't love it.

Four P's.

This weekend, I FINALLY! finished the project of painting my bedroom. I've had the paint for almost 9 months. I've come to learn that there are just some things you can't rush.

Bad
In spite of numerous "helpful" suggestions on wallpaper removal; I learned that the best thing to remove 3 layers of newspaper and paste and old paint from rough plaster walls was steam and elbow grease. Swearing and death glares did nothing. Neither did fabric softener, or gel sprays, or asking the paper nicely to please get off my walls. Scrape. Read - oh look - the Russians are in Berlin! Scrape. Read -What? Which offensive? Why isn't this scrap story bigger? &^(@! Scrape. Read - 3 bedroom cottage for sale in WBL for $4500. I will cheerfully hate that wallpaper for the rest of my life, and yet continue to love the home I have. Maybe it was a character building experience. Maybe it was torture. I wish (also doesn't work) that the dreadful wallpaper was gone forever from my house, but that is still a triumph in the making.

Better
So far, I've used 18 gallons of plaster on the walls - yep, gallons. That gasp you just heard was me being shocked after doing that math - it's the equivalent of a tank of gas. And I'll need more for the stairwell and the upstairs hallway. In spite of the quantity though, I like plaster. I like how gloppy and tactile it is. I like seeing the difference between the new surface and the old surface. I like remembering when my dad taught me how to tape and seam drywall. I'm glad there's still plaster work on my future project list.

Best

Remember that paint? The paint that I had for 9 months? I love paint. I love color. I love what happens when color goes on a wall and a room is transformed into a completely different space. I chose and purchased all of the colors for my house shortly after I closed. I wanted to be ready to paint as soon as possible. I am not a pink bedroom kind of girl, but I lived in a pink bedroom because there were so many other projects to finish first - kitchen, kids' room living room, bathroom, dining room - it's a long list that's been checked off already. I could live with pink, because I knew Toasted Wheat, and Yorkshire Brown , and California Poppy were waiting. Now that they are on the walls - it feels like a victory.

What is the point of this post? It's a reminder to myself that it takes time to get where you want to be. There aren't magic words. There will be delays and unexpected events that take you from your focus. What did I learn? Paper. Plaster. Paint. Patience.

A beginning

This is the founding post of my personal blog; Sugar and Sisu.

Sugar is pretty easy to understand - it's a sweetener, and makes things taste good. This is part of the title because I believe that life is sweet.

Sisu is a harder concept to define. Sisu is Finnish, encompassing a sense of perseverance and determination to continue. Wikipedia has a longer description. Sisu is part of my heritage, and something I've come to realize has also defined my life.

And now a short autobiography to provide some context for future postings:
I come from a large family. I have two children of my own. I was married for 14 years, but am now separated. That's a complicated story that I won't go into now. I'm a technical communicator, and I love my job. I've recently purchased an adorable 2-bedroom cottage built in 1936 and am in the process of renovating it.

I'm writing this blog for my own sake - but also to expand on some of the thoughts that I don't include on Facebook. I'll share stories here about my kids, my house, my job, and just life in general -- Sugar and Sisu -- life is sweet, and we continue.